


Scattering Stars Like Dust

by Dovesummer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Magical Realism, Not Initially By Hannibal, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 11:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30021282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dovesummer/pseuds/Dovesummer
Summary: It was the excuse he would give Jack later: he hadn’t been prepared for the lure of the mirror.  Its magic was nothing like the magic used to commit the crime.  It was alluring.  Intoxicating.  It was entirely organic to the owner, the draw of the mirror created with an enviable ease.  Will felt a heat flood through him.  He realized with no small amount of surprise that he was aroused, experiencing his own body as though he were a distant observer of its reactions.He wasn’t consciously aware of moving but hewasaware of stopping.  He stood in front of the mirror - a mirror that had no right to be in this room - and considered the dark version of himself reflected back.  Its lips curled into a cruel grin and Will inhaled sharply.  He removed his glove, unable to keep himself from reaching out.  He wanted - noneeded- to touch that smooth, dark plane of glass.As soon as his fingertips hit the mirror the room was plunged into darkness.  His vision narrowed to a single point of light, a shiver running through him as he realized it was only growing larger because he was falling toward it, powerless to stop the inexorable draw of something he couldn’t yet identify.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	Scattering Stars Like Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Title is part of a quote attributed to Rumi:  
>  _We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust._

Will woke to the buzzing of his phone. He’d set it to vibrate in the hope that it wouldn’t wake him, but unfortunately for Will he was a fitful sleeper.

It was his own fault really. He should have turned it off. 

He sighed. He didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. He kept his eyes closed in the vain hope that it was a dream and Jack wasn’t calling him back into the field a scant four hours after he’d finally fallen asleep. 

_Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered,_ Will thought as his phone buzzed again. He sighed. He’d never been partial to _Cymbeline_ anyway. In his experience suffering did not lead to pleasant outcomes. Plus, three quarters of a play’s worth of literary build-up had been rendered obsolete in the face of Shakespeare’s desire for a happy ending, resulting in some wildly unbelievable machinations. Or perhaps it had been a patron’s desire. 

“We are all beholden to someone,” Will said softly as his phone buzzed once more. If he concentrated he would know why Jack was calling, but he was tired and he would need his strength for whatever crime scene he was about to see. 

Besides, there was only one person who called him at three in the morning. And only one reason for the call. Reluctantly, he reached out to pick up the phone. “What now, Jack?” 

***

Cradling his thermos of coffee, Will approached the home. It was the standard Colonial style home so common throughout Virginia. Built to be symmetrical, it had four rectangular windows across the first floor and four across the second. It was white and likely recently painted. The door held a splash of color, the vibrant red standing out against the white pillars of the veranda. It was remarkable only in how unremarkable it was - except perhaps for that bright red door. 

Will sipped from his thermos as he took in the scene. He’d had two quick cups before leaving his house, burning his tongue in the process, and the thermos was already mostly empty. But he knew he was going to need the rest of it. It was a pity magical ability didn’t render one immune to human frailties like exhaustion (or burnt tongues, for that matter). He still had to rely on caffeine. 

The porch was already cordoned off by green tape: SUPERNATURAL CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS! A handful of people from a variety of agencies were milling about, some clearly done with their duties but not ready to leave, others still checking for evidence around the property. Most of them kept well back from the crime scene tape. 

He spotted Beverly standing at the foot of the steps. “Jack inside?” he asked, his voice rough with lack of sleep. 

Beverly’s nod was surprisingly subdued and Will paused to look at her. 

“I thought I had the monopoly looking that tired,” he said, the joke falling flat. She gave him a wan smile, such a far cry from her normal grin that Will felt a stab of real concern. Beverly had an unflagging optimism, her dark eyes always sparkling with barely contained laughter. Will had often thought of her as ‘chipper’. When they initially met her bright personality and glib way of speaking had annoyed him, but he’d quickly grown to like her. 

It probably didn’t hurt that she’d been once of the few people who were kind to him when he was first brought on. At eighteen he was the youngest Mage ever to join the FBI’s Occult Investigative Unit - abbreviated as OIU or sometimes just OI (which led to all number of jokes within the FBI). In fact, he was the youngest person ever to join the FBI. A number of exceptions had been made due to his abilities to allow him to join so young. As a result he was a relative celebrity at Quantico; frequently treated with awe and occasionally disdain. Rarely spoken to like a normal human being.

Beverly, on the other hand, made small talk with him about the cases or told him about her weekend. She suggested restaurants in the DC area or sites to visit in his virtually non-existent downtime. She made him feel almost _normal._

She asked him to go to lunch after a few weeks. He’d been on edge the entire meal, assuming this was when she would try to pick his brain and find out what made him tick - plenty of others had asked him pointed questions to determine just what made him so powerful. But she never once asked him about his magic. She insulted his food choice, which had Will hiding a smile. Apparently Beverly was not a fan of fried eggs on burgers. He left the lunch feeling surprisingly happy and they’d made a habit of going once a week since then. It was by far the most social Will had ever been with anyone. 

More than a decade later, it was still the most social he was with anyone.

He searched her face, and the more he looked at her the more concerned he became. She was paler than normal, the dark circles under her eyes practically bruises. Even her hair seemed dull. 

“You ok?” he asked quietly. 

“Crossed the perimeter by mistake,” she said dully. “I’ll be fine in a day or two.” 

Will narrowed his eyes at her. They both knew she was lying. Her voice was a quiet monotone: she’d been drained more than she was admitting. It would be more than a day or two before she recovered. 

Will reached out to place his thumb on the dark skin under her right eye. She flinched. The touch hurt due to the enchantment embedded in her skin, but Will knew she was also shocked by the touch itself. He didn’t think it was the first time he’d touched her, though when he chased his memories he had to admit he couldn’t find one where he had. Not even a handshake. He mentally shook his head at himself as he ran his thumb gently across the dark skin. She sighed, some of the color coming back to her cheeks. 

“You shouldn’t have, Will,” she said. “I would have been fine in a couple days.” 

“We both know you wouldn’t have,” Will said. “But now you will. All you need is a good night’s sleep.” 

She snorted and Will smiled in response. A ‘good night’s sleep’ probably wouldn’t be happening for either of them any time soon. 

“Jack’ll be pissed you used any of your energy to help me. He wants everything directed at the scene in there.” 

Will shrugged. “You might be my only friend, Beverly. I don’t care what Jack thinks.” 

“That’s depressing, Graham,” she said, a teasing lilt returning to her voice. 

“Besides. What Jack doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” He winked and she grinned as he ducked under the tape. He probably shouldn’t have done it. The energy expended to neutralize an enchantment that had taken hold on someone was not insubstantial, although it was energy Will could normally afford to give away. But Jack had been running him ragged lately, and he’d been tired - physically and psychically - before he’d helped Beverly. 

Still, he couldn’t let her go through the next week as a zombie. 

“Why such a strong enchantment this time, Jack?” Will asked as the man approached him. 

“You’ll understand when you see the scene,” Jack said gruffly, giving Will a sympathetic once over. “You up for this, Will?”

“Are _you_?” Even Jack looked haggard and tired. Jack shrugged, his large body sagging lower as he did. If Will squinted he could see the pressure the man was under as a physical thing; brick and mortar weighing him down. The enchantment was starting to work on him, too. 

“Stop.” Will felt a tingling down his spine at the Command, but no compulsion to obey. He was more powerful on his worst day than Jack was on his best. Will quirked an eyebrow, the unspoken question of why Jack had bothered with magic lingering between them. Jack appeared annoyed. He was obviously tired; he’d probably done it without thinking. 

They stood face to face, though they did not meet each other’s eyes. Jack had long since stopped trying for any type of eye contact, resigned to the fact that Will would focus on his ear or forehead, but never look him in the eyes. 

“You need to go, Jack,” Will said, voice soft. “The enchantment is already starting to wear you down. Stay too much longer and it’ll start draining your energy.” 

Jack gave him a frustrated look. Will shrugged. “Your men did it, Jack. A lighter enchantment and it wouldn’t be impacting you.” 

_He was probably still fighting the enchantment out of sheer stubbornness,_ Will thought, suppressing a smile. Jack didn’t have much magic, but he had a Voice and Will had to begrudgingly admit the Voice had served him well. Combined with his naturally authoritative demeanor and imposing presence, the extra push a Voice gave had afforded him an impressive close rate and allowed him to climb through the ranks and eventually head the OIU. 

It wasn’t enough magic to withstand the heavy-duty enchantment his men had placed on the line for this scene, though. In fact, considering the Mages on the scene they’d probably set up a line that even _they_ couldn’t cross. Will frowned at that thought, running a hand through his hair and wondering off-hand if he’d brushed it before leaving his house. 

His fingers hit a tangle. Probably not. 

“Through there,” Jack said, gesturing to a door. Then, turning to the few magically inclined techs still in the home, he boomed “Clear the scene.” 

Will watched in amusement as techs exited the scene with speed that suggested they been on their toes, waiting for permission. Jack was looking more and more haggard by the moment, the pale beneath his dark complexion readily apparent. He gave Will a brief nod and Will inclined his head curtly in response, handing Jack his coffee thermos and watching until the other man was gone. Once he was completely alone, he opened the door Jack had indicated and moved into the heart of the crime scene. 

The energy of the residual magic in the room was stifling and Will immediately understood why the enchantment was so strong. Anyone without magic that walked into this room would be completely defenseless to the pain, rage and utter despair that flooded the bedroom. Will shut his eyes and swallowed. It would take a lot of magical scrubbing to get this crime out of the walls. 

He wondered if the family would try to sell. He was tired of his little apartment outside of Quantico. Thirty years of age seemed like a good time to get a house. Maybe a dog, finally, though he worried he wouldn’t be able to care for one with the odd hours he kept. 

This house was in the middle of nowhere. He wouldn’t have to deal with neighbors questioning his well-being. He could imagine himself here, in this little white house so much like a ship on the sea of tranquility. 

Opening his eyes he took in the scene. If not for the unmistakeable aura left by the magic he would have assumed it was nonmagical violence. The man lay on his back on the double bed. His eyelids had been cut and his eyes were dull and cloudy in death. 

Will approached the body, bending low to look directly into the man’s eyes. There had been a time people believed the eyes of the dead held the last image they saw in life. Will knew better. There was plenty to see in the eyes of the living, but the eyes of the dead held only a calm darkness. His hair had fallen over his eyes when he bent over, obscuring his vision. He tucked it behind his ears as he considered the man’s face, wishing he had a rubber band. His hair was getting too long. He should probably have it cut. 

The mutilation of the body was significant but far from the worst Will had seen. The man’s mouth had been forced open, most likely after death but before rigor mortis had fully set in. It was stretched in an image that reminded Will of the The Scream: a wide, gaping hole in the middle of a nondescript face. The Edvard Munch painting was said to represent the anxiety of the human condition. 

Certainly the scene before him represented some kind of anxiety. 

His mouth had been propped open until rigor set in in earnest in order for it to be stuck in this silent scream. Will looked more closely, but couldn’t see what might have been used. It would have been something physical - there was no residual magical energy on the man’s mouth. In fact, there was surprisingly little residual energy concentrated on the body at all, considering the oppressive feeling of it in the room in general. 

Most of the man’s tongue was gone. It had been pulled out so that what was left hung obscenely down the man’s chin, the jagged edges making it clear the tongue had been torn from the body and not excised with any amount of skill. Both the tongue and the eyelids had been taken while he was still alive. 

He’d been pierced in the femoral artery, the spray hitting the wall in a way that made Will think obscenely of a Pollock knock off; paint dripped or flung across the canvas in a vain attempt to recreate the artist’s process. 

More of then man’s blood had pooled below him, soaking into the mattress and the floor beneath the bed. The severing of the artery must have occurred after the eyes and tongue. It would have been too complicated to sever the artery and then attempt their removal while the victim was still alive - or at least while he was still coherent. And there was no doubt the perpetrator wanted this man to suffer.

There was a focused anger directed at the victim. It was the sort of rage that causes a red haze around the edge of a person’s vision, narrowing the field of it to only the object of that rage. 

Though intense, there was nothing particularly magical about it. In fact, the killing of the man itself seemed to have no magic involved at all. It was almost as though someone with magical abilities had protected the area, setting up the crime for someone nonmagical to complete. 

The man’s ribs were cracked open, bones bent back to display the mostly empty chest cavity. Having donned gloves before entering the crime scene, Will removed one and placed his fingertips on the dead man’s rib bones. Jack would flip when he found out, but it was the best way to sense what he was missing. He closed his eyes, concentrating on feeling instead of seeing. 

The blood was already cooling and congealing. Beneath the blood he could feel the smooth strength of the bones, the cells that would normally be moving and regenerating gone dormant in death. 

There was a small amount of magic in the man but as Will concentrated he began to sense something else. There was something off about the magic in the room, something about the burst of energy that had occurred to subdue the man and bind him. A lack of control. Something he had not felt in a long time. 

Will opened his eyes, surprised. The magic used to subdue the man and secure the room had been stolen by the person who committed the crime. The unsub assumed he had enough power to deal with his victim magically, but he had overused what he took subduing him and had nothing left to enact the actual mutilation. 

Nothing except himself, that was. The torn tongue might have suggested he was unprepared for that possibility, but he’d clearly brought tools. The eyelids were cut off and opening a ribcage the way he had was an impossibility without magic or proper equipment. But it was crudely done. The tools had certainly been a backup plan and not the original intent. The cuts lacked skill. The entire crime - both magical and nonmagical elements - had an overall lack of finesse. 

The brutality of it and the extent of the mutilations were misleading. It might not be his first kill - in fact, Will was willing to bet it wasn’t - but he was still new to the pastime. 

The only way to temporarily wield magic was to consume the blood of a Mage. Or the flesh of someone with slight magical abilities - perhaps something so small they didn’t even realize: the man who managed to guess the outcome of the Superbowl each year without knowing he had any Sight or the woman who wanted a baby girl so badly she determined the gender of her child. 

He stepped back from the body. It made a bizarre kind of sense. The chest cavity was empty - heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, intestines all taken. All likely consumed or waiting to be consumed in order to absorb whatever small amount of magic this man had held. The person eating the organs would absorb and manifest it with intensity for a brief period of time; a candle flaring brightly before flickering out. 

Pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his hand clean he stood to leave, replacing the glove as he did. It wouldn’t do to have everyone notice he’d removed the latex in the middle of a crime scene. In the end, plenty of magically enacted crimes had still been prosecuted based on the physical evidence collected. 

Most people with magic had only a small amount and only specific abilities and needed to be on-scene to wield it. It was why the OI employed people like Beverly - people with no magical inclinations, but who were very, very good at their jobs. Standing in the doorway he took one last look at the room before leaving. He was in the middle of creating a mental catalogue of the layout when he noticed the ornate mirror on the other side of the room. 

_How had he missed that?_ he wondered. The frame was tricolor gold and intricately designed. It was a floral pattern, platinum leaves and rose gold petals standing out against the traditional gold of the vines. The mirror itself was opaque. Will felt obscured as he watched himself approach, seeing only a faded image where he should have been. If he looked closely he could identify the lines of his face: where his hair fell nearly to his shoulders, the outline of his eyes, nose and mouth, the jut of his chin, his ears where they protruded slightly from beneath his hair. But there was no definition. His reflection was grey. Amorphous. 

_A dark mirror reflecting the worst of ourselves,_ Will thought sardonically. There was no reason for him to approach the mirror but he felt a strange compulsion, only registering after the fact that he was being influenced by a magic different from the residue left in the room but every bit as powerful as his own. A small, faraway voice in his mind screamed at him to stop but he continued his approach. 

_Was he so enthralled he was unable to say no?_

It was the excuse he would give Jack later: he hadn’t been prepared for the lure of the mirror. Its magic was nothing like the magic used to commit the crime. It was alluring. Intoxicating. It was entirely organic to the owner, the draw of the mirror created with an enviable ease. Will felt a heat flood through him. He realized with no small amount of surprise that he was aroused, experiencing his own body as though he were a distant observer of its reactions. 

He wasn’t consciously aware of moving but he _was_ aware of stopping. He stood in front of the mirror - a mirror that had no right to be in this room - and considered the dark version of himself reflected back. Its lips curled into a cruel grin and Will inhaled sharply. He removed his glove, unable to keep himself from reaching out. He wanted - no _needed_ \- to touch that smooth, dark plane of glass. 

As soon as his fingertips hit the mirror the room was plunged into darkness. His vision narrowed to a single point of light, a shiver running through him as he realized it was only growing larger because he was falling toward it, powerless to stop the inexorable draw of something he couldn’t yet identify. 

***

When Will was in the first grade he turned his teacher into a crane. Not the actual bird - though he would have enjoyed one with feathers - but the origami version. He’d watched in fascination as she was stretched into a flat plane, her arms and legs fusing on either side, her stomach pulled and extended, her head elongating. She screamed in pain until the sounds would no longer come. Once she was silent the sheet of stretched clothes, skin, muscle and hair that had been his teacher began to fold in on itself, slowly at first but then faster and faster until finally the movement stopped. An origami crane sat on the teacher’s desk, one elongated eye blinking at them but otherwise unnaturally still. 

Reactions from his classmates were varied: some screamed, some cried, one fainted. A few watched, awed like Will, but only Will stood and approached the crane once it stilled. He reached out to touch, his hand resting on the fold that was the beak and had formerly been part of his teacher’s nose. It was an elegantly executed transfiguration, but he hadn’t known that at the time. He only knew that the crane was warm to the touch. Its surface still felt soft like skin. 

Will was astonished. He’d been bored. He’d learned to fold an origami crane the week before - something his Aunt taught him - and had imagined his teacher as a bird. Now she was.

The principle walked in as Will was stroking down the beak. His classmates’ eyes all flew to the door as it opened, but Will’s eyes stayed on the crane. He turned eventually, blinking in surprise as the older woman entered the room. At first he struggled to think of why she would be there - but of course she’d heard the screams and had come to investigate.

“Graham,” she said, her voice shrill with fear, “step away. You have no idea what might happen.” 

He knew nothing would happen but he stepped back anyway, looking down at the floor to avoid the hardness of her eyes. Mrs. Maddox was not mean, exactly. Hers was a blunt fairness that was generally respected but did not endear her to any of the children. Will felt small in her presence. He imagined himself shrinking, but unlike when his teacher turned into a crane, he did not change size. 

Almost no local law enforcement agencies had supernatural investigative services at the time and Montgomery was no exception. The incident was investigated by the SIS - the FBI’s occult arm and what would later become the OIU. It was a silly acronym if Will had ever heard one: “Supernatural Investigative Section”. Everyone wore matching black suits and ties. Most of them had dark hair and all of them had short haircuts. They all looked so alike, so nondescript, that it was difficult to tell them apart. 

Will thought that was probably the point. 

He also thought the FBI was very boring. 

They interviewed all the students in his class but spent the most time with him, asking him the same questions again and again. He was the only one who’d touched his teacher in crane form. 

He was curious, he told them. He wanted to know what she felt like. If she still felt like his teacher. (She did.)

They tried to make meaningful eye contact with him. He knew they were doing it “to establish trust.” But Will hated eye contact. When he looked into people’s eyes he saw things. There wasn’t anything he could make out - it was more like a series of images behind dark glass - but the suggestion was enough. It was as though all their hopes, fears and anxieties appeared in their eyes. 

The more the SIS agents attempted eye contact, the more Will looked away. 

They asked what he saw happen to his teacher; if there was anything unusual he saw before it happened or if he recalled hearing anything strange immediately before it started. They asked if he’d seen anyone new around the school. They asked how he felt. _Tired of being asked questions._ They asked how it started. Again. Will mostly shrugged in response. 

They never asked why a crane and they never asked if he did it, so he never told them what he knew to be true: he had. He pictured it and it became reality. 

Will learned later that they never brought it up because they never considered it a possibility. Magic rarely presented before 16 and there were no documented cases younger than 11. Will had started school early and was still four months shy of his seventh birthday. 

There was some discussion that it could have been one of the older students at the school, which housed up to grade 7. But the magic, if not completely refined, was elegant enough that the consensus of the experts was that it was not a student at the school. They estimated someone in their late teens or early twenties, someone still immature but with at least _some_ magical training. 

Certainly there was no possibility that a six year old boy with no training had transfigured his teacher using nothing more than the force of his imagination. The thought would have been laughable had anyone been foolish enough to suggest it.

In the end, a Mage was able to set the teacher to rights and the investigation was closed without any fault having been determined. The teacher left the school and never came back. 

Will felt guilty about it. Ms. Mitchell was nice and smelled like cinnamon. He’d liked her, even if she was more interesting as a crane. 

***

Will hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opened them. The room he was standing in was dark. Four walls - a square, not a rectangle - and no doors. What small amount of light there was came from a single candle in the center of a table itself positioned in the middle of the room. The candle was in an antique looking silver candle holder; it sat low in the holder, surrounded by a small basin with a ring on the side as a finger hold. Will imagined a little boy wearing a white shift and cap carrying the candle stealthily from room to room, a mischievous smile on his face.

The table also appeared old. It was a small square table made of a wood Will couldn’t identify, built simply and likely for function rather than aesthetic. There were no chairs. He approached the table slowly, laying his ungloved hand on the wood and grazing his fingertips across the rough texture of the table top. It wasn’t particularly sturdy, the table shifting under his hand and the flame of the candle pursuing the movement. Either the maker lacked practice or the table was even older than it appeared. 

Pressing his hand flat against the top of the table to still the movement, Will glanced above him. The ceiling was the same color as the walls, though it was difficult to tell exactly what color that was in the low light. A dark blue, most likely. The consistent color created an odd, oppressive feeling. Though the ceiling was quite high - much too high for Will to touch even when stretching himself as tall as possible and pushing up onto his toes - it felt lower. 

In the center of the ceiling, directly above the candle, was a small circular mirror. Unlike the mirror at the crime scene it had no frame. It was a simple plane of mirrored glass placed on the flat surface of the ceiling. 

Like the mirror at the crime scene the reflection in it was opaque. Will made out the flickering light of the candle, so dull it appeared almost black. The table beneath it was the same as the one in the room, but in the mirror it appeared larger and was laden with food. There were a variety of meats and vegetables: Will thought he recognized a turkey, a few varietals of squash, possibly a beet dish, and potatoes. On the opposite side of the table was a roast he couldn’t identify. It was covered in some kind of leaves and tied with twine. At first he thought it was an animal shank, but as he continued to look he was able to make out the shape of a decidedly human foot. 

The leg was set directly in front of the one chair placed at the table. Seated in that chair was a figure. It was an inky blue-black color that Will could tell had nothing to do with the darkness of the mirror. The skin appeared thick, closer to a hide than human flesh. There were antlers sprouting from the being’s head; a mature, multi-pronged set, covered in a reddish-brown velvet. 

Will could feel magic emanating from the being at the table and felt heat running through him. It was the same magic Will had felt from the mirror: want, desire, _lust_. It was primal. Old. He was breathing more rapidly and he focused on controlling his body’s reactions. Whoever this being was, he was powerful. Will wasn’t certain if he’d created the mirror or if he was bonded to it. Or trapped in it. Though if he was trapped, the trap was failing and his magic was leeching into the world beyond. 

The figure looked up, its blood red eyes locking with Will’s. If there was anything to see in the creature’s eyes it was thankfully obscured by the mirror. Beyond the skin, antlers, and red eyes its features were humanoid. It tilted its head in a clear display of curiosity. Will took a cautious step back, not breaking eye contact. The creature’s mouth opened, morphing into a grin that displayed two rows of teeth that narrowed to the sharp points of a needle. They almost appeared to have been filed, but something told Will they were natural. A low rumble sounded through the room. It was laughing. 

Will recoiled, falling abruptly to the floor and moving quickly backward until he hit the wall. He took a deep breath, flicking his eyes to the table in front of him. It was unchanged: a single candle burning low, no food resting on its surface, no chair on the other side, and, most importantly, no creature grinning wildly and laughing. Will inhaled deeply, calming his breath. 

He hadn’t encountered magic this powerful in a long time - possibly ever. It was ancient and completely untamed. Will couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him, equal parts thrilled and fearful. 

Standing, his eyes moved to the mirror in the ceiling once more but he was disappointed to find it was empty. Or rather, it showed nothing more than a reflection of the room as it was. The room and mirror were also completely devoid of magic. What Will had felt came from the creature, not the objects. 

Will slouched against the wall, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. He wasn’t certain where he was, what meaning there might be behind this room, or the purpose of the mirror. But he knew he was inside it, somehow, and he needed to get out. He sighed, steeling himself for what was to come. He was tired and returning was going to take all of his strength. 

***

When Will was ten he set his school on fire. 

He was, once again, the new kid in school. They’d arrived in town before the school year started. At least he got to start with the other kids. When his father attempted to enroll Will in the fifth grade instead of the fourth, the school insisted on testing him before placement. The outcome was that he was placed in the sixth grade. His father was thrilled. 

Will, on the other hand, was less than thrilled. He was glad not to be bored in his classes, but part of the agreement was that he had to see the school guidance counselor twice a week. As it turned out, the school was concerned not only with his intellect but his emotional well-being as well. They wanted someone to help him with the social challenges that come with being two years younger and therefore quite a bit smaller than your classmates.

“I don’t want to see him,” Will complained. 

“It’s part of the agreement, Billy,” his father said. Will hated when his father called him ‘Billy’. He scowled. He was Will - not Billy, Bill, Willy or William. He thought people should call him the name he liked best, not the one they did. 

“I don’t need to see him,” Will continued, not letting up. He might only be ten but he was no fool about what he wanted or needed. “Kids don’t think I’m weird cause of my age, Daddy. I’m used to it. I don’t need to talk about it.”

But Will’s father merely shook his head and repeated that it was part of the agreement, and Will resigned himself to going. He appeared at the guidance counselor’s office promptly at 3:40pm, as instructed, knocked lightly on the door and waited. 

It was eventually answered by an extremely overweight older gentleman. His silver hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and a red flush spread across his cheeks and nose. He smelled of stale coffee and Will felt a near-instant dislike for him. 

“William Graham?” he asked. 

“Will,” Will corrected. 

“Mr. Beaufort.” He gestured into his office. “Please, come in William.” 

Will scowled as he walked past the man. Beneath the scent of old coffee was the unmistakable sour smell of whiskey. It was the same smell his father often had, and one of the reasons they had moved so many times. The office was messy: papers sprawled across the desk, books on the floor, a rumpled shirt hanging on the back of the door. The shirt the counselor was wearing was equally wrinkled. Before Will knocked Mr. Beaufort had probably been asleep at his desk. 

This man was supposed to help him cope with his peers. Will would have laughed, but he didn’t want to have to explain to the man why he was laughing. 

Instead, he set his backpack down next to an uncomfortable looking wooden chair, clearly intended for guests, and took a seat. He watched as Mr. Beaufort seated himself on the opposite side of the desk, practically collapsing into the leather rolling chair. The bulk of the man was such that he had to sit back from the desk and he was wheezing from the simple exertion of going to and from his office door. Even a ten year old could see he was not healthy. 

Will folded his hands primly in his lap, sat up very straight, and waited. 

“So, William. Tell me about your day.” 

Will narrowed his eyes. That was it? Tell me about your day? He stared at the man, silent. 

“You know why you’re here, right William?” Mr Beaufort asked. There was a tiredness in his voice. He didn’t want to explain to Will why they’d been forced to have these meetings. Meetings he clearly didn’t want to have any more than Will did. Will had the sudden insight that he had to explain that to other children he met with - why it was a requirement that they show up to his office at specific times - and he was hoping that a kid he’d been told was intelligent wouldn’t need to hear it. 

Will nodded. “I’d rather be called Will than William, please,” he said politely. 

“Ok. I can call you that.” His voice was gruff but Will was Listening and he wasn’t angry. Will had discovered if he Listened closely enough he could hear the meaning behind the words. He couldn’t do it all the time, though, because it was tiring and grownups so rarely said what they meant. 

“There isn’t much to tell you about my day,” Will said, shrugging. 

“It can be general, it doesn’t need to be specific. Was it good? Bad? Did you make any friends?” 

Will snorted at the last question. “I never make friends, Mr. Beaufort.”

The guidance counselor nodded kindly. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, actually, though Will was still sure he wouldn’t be any help. “I’m sure it’s difficult when you’re much younger than your classmates.” 

Will sighed, threading his fingers together and looking down at his hands. “It’s not because of my age.” 

He’d been mostly avoiding eye contact since he was very small and was almost always sorry when he didn’t. Especially since, as he got older, he saw more in people’s eyes. Once he’d seen his second grade teacher tied to a bed, naked, while a woman in leather whipped him. Will didn’t understand and tried to warn his teacher, whose face turned several shades of red before he asked Will where he’d heard such a nasty rumor. 

His teacher must have been too embarrassed to report it, because the school never said anything. Will tried to bring it up to his father at the time, but his father wanted to know who’d been telling him things a seven year old shouldn’t hear about. And how do you explain to your father that you looked in someone’s eyes and saw their secret? In the end his Aunt tried to explain - something about consenting adults and “you’ll understand when you’re older” - but Will wasn’t so sure. Now that he was a few years older he knew it was something sexual, but he still didn’t really get it. Adults seemed to like sex a lot. Will thought it was gross. 

Especially after that he avoided eye contact as much as possible. But he looked up now, meeting the guidance counselor’s eyes with a steady gaze of his own. 

Mr. Beaufort wasn’t all that interesting, it turned out. He saw a bottle of the same whiskey his father liked to drink and a half empty glass, a quiet house with empty spaces on the walls where there used to be pictures, and a cat that sat on Mr Beaufort’s lap while he drank. 

The cat was a bit of a surprise. Will averted his gaze and looked at his guidance counselor’s hands. His ring finger was a solid color, with no tell-tale band of lighter skin. But if Will Looked hard enough he could see the gold ring that used to be there. 

“What’s your cat’s name?” Will asked. 

Mr. Beaufort sat up, startled. “How did you know I had a cat?” 

Will shrugged. Looking at his sleeve, the counselor seemed to decide Will had seen hair on his clothes. 

“My cat’s name is Aphrodite,” he said. “Do you have any pets, Will?” 

“Can I meet her sometime?” Will asked. Mr. Beaufort watched him, his eyes clearing with sudden curiosity. 

“Maybe,” he said. “Will you answer my question?”

Will looked at his hands again. “I like dogs, but Daddy said we move too much.”

“Is that why you have trouble making friends? Because of how often you move?” 

“No,” Will said coldly. He shivered. The room was suddenly chilly, and Mr Beaufort was looking at him curiously again. 

“Then why, do you think?” 

“Other kids think I’m weird,” Will said softly. “They don’t like to be around me.” He was silent for a moment, watching Mr. Beaufort watch him but not meeting his eyes. “It’s better when they ignore me anyway,” he said, finally. Some days he could feel himself fading, as though he were invisible. It was easier on those days, because the other kids didn’t look at him. 

“Did they ignore you today?” Mr. Beaufort asked, gently. 

“I pretended to blend into the wall,” Will said. “And they all walked around me. No one said anything, so it was a good day.” 

Mr. Beaufort nodded, still looking at Will with a curious expression. He didn’t ask any more questions about school, though, and Will was grateful. Instead they talked about Will’s favorite types of dogs and how he would walk to the park down the street from his house so that he could see people walking their dogs and sometimes pet them. 

There were a lot of things Will didn’t like, but dogs were always soft and nice. They didn’t have secrets they were trying to hide and they didn’t think he was weird. They were happy to be pet, even by the small, scrawny kid with too bright eyes and too long hair that his father never bothered to have cut. 

Will left thinking it might even have been sort of nice to talk to Mr. Beaufort. 

He changed his mind the next day when the men in suits came to talk to him. It was the same people that came when he turned Ms. Mitchell into a crane. He thought some of the agents might even be the same, but it was hard to tell. 

There was one that was new, though. He was younger than everyone else and his skin was darker. He told Will his name was Jack. None of the other agents told Will their names. 

Jack talked to Will while they waited for his father to arrive. They talked about dogs, which Will liked, and then they talked about Mr. Beaufort, which Will didn’t like. Mr. Beaufort must have told them Will was weird, just like his classmates thought, or the people in suits wouldn’t be talking to him. But Jack was nice enough and when Will snuck a quick look at his eyes he saw excitement and hope, but no specific secret. Will Listened very hard while Jack was talking, but unlike most adults when he said something he meant what he said. 

Will could tell there were a lot of things he wasn’t saying, though, and eventually Will got tired of wondering about the unasked questions and stopped responding to the ones Jack _was_ asking. 

Jack changed the subject. “How about some ice cream while we wait for your dad? I’m told they have some in the kitchen here.” 

Will felt an odd prickling sensation at the back of his skull. Something told him to say yes, even though he didn’t want any. “No, thank you,” he said instead.

“A kid that doesn’t like ice cream?” Jack asked, looking at him with an expression Will couldn’t quite understand but definitely didn’t like.

“I like ice cream.” His Aunt used to make ice cream. She had a wooden bucket with a metal handle to churn it. They would put fruit and cream in a metal container on the inside, then salt and ice on the outside between the container and the wood, and they would churn it for what felt like hours. It was the most delicious ice cream Will had ever eaten. They made peach, strawberry, pineapple, vanilla, and pear. His Aunt said the best thing about homemade ice cream was that you could make flavors you couldn’t get at the grocery store. She made cherry amaretto for her and Will’s father once. She told Will it was adult ice cream, but she’d still snuck him a taste. 

But that had been when he was little, before they started moving around for his father’s work. Will hadn’t seen his Aunt or made ice cream since he was seven. He’d only eaten it a few times since then. Ice cream was good, but it also made him sad. 

“I don’t want any ice cream right now,” Will snapped. They’d been sitting in the teacher’s lounge for over an hour. He’d been pulled out of class in front of all the other students - which definitely didn’t make him any less weird - and he wanted to go back to class or go home. He also wanted to go to the bathroom. 

He asked one of the people in suits if he could leave, only to be told he would be escorted. That annoyed Will. He didn’t need someone to walk him to the bathroom, but it was clear they weren’t go to let him by himself. In the end he agreed to the escort and made his way down the hall, one of the suits trailing behind. He was glad they didn’t walk next to him. 

It was the middle of sixth period but there were still a few other kids in the hallway. Some had hall passes. A few were wandering around during their free period instead of doing homework. 

None of them would look at Will. They probably wouldn’t have anyway, but it was worse with the suits there. Will hunched over, feeling very small. 

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were dark the way they always were when he was angry. He’d known Mr. Beaufort wasn’t going to be able to help him when they talked, but he’d thought the counselor might actually try to be his friend. 

Instead Mr. Beaufort said something that caused all the people in black suits to show up. He wasn’t sure how much longer he and his father would be in this city - he hoped not for long - but while they were he didn’t want to come back to this school. Will felt his eyes prickle with tears and he swallowed harshly. 

Maybe the school would burn down and then he wouldn’t have to come back. The image of it flashed before his eyes: flames rising steadily from the top of the school, running down the walls and searing into the grass surrounding the building. All the carefully trimmed bushes would be disintegrated, no more than piles of ashes in front of stone walls that had previously been a palace of learning. Will smiled darkly. It would be beautiful. 

He’d already washed his hands, but he washed them again for good measure before leaving the bathroom. He hoped his father would get to the school soon. He would make the suits leave Will alone.

As he stepped back out into the hallway the alarm went off, then the sprinklers. Will and the suit that had followed him looked at each other. The man in the suit took Will’s hand. His hand was soft and warm and made Will feel inexplicably safe, even though he wasn’t sure it should. The suit didn’t speak, but held Will’s hand firmly as they made their way outside to the track where teachers were taking headcount. 

Will stood still, allowing himself to be counted, and saw Jack coming over to him. He didn’t speak and for a while neither did Jack. They both stood quietly, watching the flames rise from the attic of the school. 

“Do you think the school deserves to burn to the ground, Will?” Jack asked, as everyone - teachers, students, Will and all the people in suits - stood on the track field, watching the orange flames licking over the grey roof. 

Will shook his head. He hadn’t meant to do it, exactly. He’d been upset, but he hadn’t tried to start the fire. It just happened.

“But you’re not upset that it’s burning,” Jack said. Will could feel the other man’s eyes on him. 

He looked up, focusing his bright blue eyes on Jack’s left ear. “I won’t be sorry if I don’t have to come back here,” he said

“The school’s just a building, Will,” Jack said. “Does it deserve your anger?”

Will said nothing, lifting his thumb to his mouth and biting his knuckle. 

He thought maybe he should feel sorry about the building, but if Jack believed he could stop the fire he was wrong. He _thought_ about it stopping, leaving a hole in the roof but nothing else. But the flames didn’t stop. They continued moving steadily to engulf more and more of the school.

It was a beautiful building; old, with ornamental designs carved into the white window frames and trusses. It was made of a lovely red brick, but that probably wouldn’t burn. The floors would, though. The walls would. Already part of the roof was caving in. Will realized he did feel a little sad watching it, but mostly he was glad he wouldn’t have to go back in the morning. 

When Will’s father finally showed up, Jack pulled him aside. The two of them kept looking at him and Will tried hard to hear what they were saying but couldn’t. He felt suddenly very tired, and he sank down to his knees before falling over onto his side. The last thing he remembered was his father’s worried face and Jack’s curious one immediately behind. 

***

Will was sweating and breathing heavily when he reappeared in the dead man’s bedroom. He was standing in front of the mirror in roughly the same position he’d been when he first touched it. It hadn’t been his intent to return to this moment, but he’d been focused on getting back and he supposed in his fatigue he’d concentrated on this specific image and moment in time. 

His hand was resting on the mirror and he removed it, placing it on the wall instead as he caught his breath. The room he’d been in might not have felt magical, but wherever it existed was surrounded by a thick magical barrier. It hadn’t been an enchantment in the traditional sense – nothing like what the mages of the OI set up as a parameter for their crime scenes – but more like a wall of sorrow. For the briefest of moments Will had given into despair and the thought that we would never leave the mirror before rebuilding the forts in his mind and pressing forward. It was like walking through quicksand, every movement slow and agonizing.

It was most certainly some kind of cage, but Will still wasn’t certain if it had been created by or for the creature. Regardless of the original intent, the creature had power over it. If it had been created to hold him it was failing. And if not - if it had been created by the creature as a trap for others - how had it remained unknown for so long? The OI had a vast repertoire of magical items, housed safely in their underground vault. Or as safely as they could be. 

Will considered himself a realist. Nothing was impenetrable and, when it came to magic, there was no completely safe location. 

As he caught his breath he realized he was shivering. He’d overexerted himself and he was behind the perimeter with all his defenses depleted. It wouldn’t be long before the enchantment started impacting him. He could feel it already, like thousands of tiny pinpricks against his skin. He felt the artistry of it as the magic washed over him. It was the work of several mages’ magic, but whoever directed the creation had masterfully woven the different influences into a cohesive final version. 

He allowed himself a moment to appreciate it. The feeling of it working against him toed the line between pain and pleasure; the ache of it as it settled into his skin and began to work was a new experience he catalogued with interest before forcing himself to focus. He had to get out of the house or he would be rendered unconscious. And if he did collapse behind the line it might be some time before the others onsite realized anything was wrong. His defenses were normally so strong Will was known for spending extended periods of time behind the perimeter - much longer than anyone else reasonably could. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath and turned to leave. His legs felt like lead, and it was with no small amount of effort that he took a step forward – only to feel strong fingers grip his hips, keeping him in place. 

Fear did not hit immediately. 

It was confusion, first, and then a rush of sensation. Untamed want. Lust. Desired-based magic. The hands on his hips were hot. He hadn’t expected them to be so warm, but each finger was like a brand against his skin. The cold talons that existed instead of fingernails pressed against his skin but did not pierce it, although Will knew they could slice through his flesh with the same ease and precision as any scalpel.

The creature moved its hand from his right hip, pressing its forearm against his chest and pulling him backward with a surprising gentleness so that their bodies were flush, his back against the creature’s warm chest. The creature shifted its arm higher, wrapping those long fingers around Will’s neck; thumb directly beneath his jawbone, one talon resting behind his ear, the others resting against the nape of his neck. 

His first instinct was to relax into the grip, and he fought the urge to turn and press himself more fully into the creature. He knew he was reacting to its magic and tried to concentrate on breathing, but the creature was slowly increasing the strength of its grip on his neck and cutting off his oxygen little by little. 

“Mine,” the creature whispered in his ear, its forked tongue licking up the side of Will’s neck. Its voice was a growl; low and guttural. A shiver of misplaced pleasure ran down his spine. He felt a soothing vibration against his back and realized the creature was purring. 

“Mine,” the creature said again. It was more predatory this time, the creature pressing them more fully together and pressing harder still against Will’s neck. It was hard to breathe, hard to think, but Will registered they were moving backward. 

“No,” he croaked. To his surprise the creature stopped, the pressure of its hand and arm releasing enough that Will gasped, drawing air in deep and wincing at the pain. 

“I have been waiting for you,” the creature said, its slick tongue flicking into Will’s ear. “Your magic called to me and I came.” The creature’s grip on him tightened again and Will realized he was going to be taken if he didn’t do something. 

Fear hit then. He tried to scream, tried to shake his head. His feet left the floor and he kicked vainly, flailing like a child. Breathing was becoming more and more difficult and his vision was going black at edges. He kicked harder, making contact with the creature’s legs and attempting to scream. The creature removed its other hand from his hip and pressed its talons roughly through his shoulder, piercing the skin and muscle with ease. 

Will did scream, then, a howl that was both the shock of the pain and the lustful pleasure of the creature’s magic settling into the skin around the wound. Will grit his teeth. He had to get away. He had to. If he didn’t, the creature was going to do something terrible with him.

Witnesses described it later as a sudden vibration that radiated outward from the house, neutralizing the enchanted perimeter, destroying anything electronic and sending everyone standing outside to the ground. A column of white light shot up from the bedroom, stretching into the sky with a near blinding intensity. It only lasted a moment before disappearing, leaving a void of darkness behind it; an inky blackness that light refused to penetrate.

They would ask what he’d done and how, but Will wasn’t certain. He’d reacted out of instinct for self-preservation. He only knew that the creature was gone, he was laying on the floor and his body was on fire, burning from the inside out.

He could still feel the creature distantly. It had been surprised, and in that surprise there was a warm feeling of genuine pride. No one had surprised the creature in a long time. But beneath that there was an undercurrent of sadness. A deep hollow feeling that came from a long held loneliness, a feeling so familiar it had become comforting in its own way. The desire for connection where there was none. The pain of rejection.

_I am going to die alone,_ Will thought, as the world before him went black.

***

Will’s bedroom was too hot and his clothes were damp and clinging to him. He shoved the covers down and thought about opening the window. It was fall, which meant it was cooling off outside even in Biloxi, and the air would be nice. He could almost feel it: the soft breeze soothing his too warm skin. He sat up to open the window, only to realize it was already open. Will smiled. The breeze did feel nice. 

Through the open window he could hear his father’s voice, as well as another man’s. Jack. 

“You’re not taking my boy, Mr. Crawford,” Will’s father said. “I’m all he’s got and he’s all I got.”

“No other family?” Jack asked. 

“No, sir,” Mr. Graham said gruffly. “All passed. It’s just me and the boy.” 

Jack made a humming noise, and Will could hear the curiosity behind it. He must know that wasn’t the truth - Will still had his Aunt, after all - but he didn’t comment on the lie. 

“He needs training,” Jack said. “Guidance.”

“What he needs, Mr Crawford, is for you to leave him alone and not study him.”

Will couldn’t see them from his window, but he knew Jack was shaking his head. 

“That’s not what I want for him, Mr. Graham. But he needs to be trained. He doesn’t know how to control it.” Jack’s voice was kind, but there was an urgent pressure in the statement that made the space behind Will’s eyes ache. 

“They say if you don’t encourage it, it goes away,” Will’s father said quietly. “Will’s not a normal boy, even without this. But he’s a good boy, Mr. Crawford. He’s my boy.”

“Do you think this is going to go away, Mr. Graham?” Will felt Jack’s dark eyes staring up at his window, even though he knew Jack couldn’t see it from where they were sitting on the porch. Will could picture them. His father had made them both coffee and secretly (not so secretly) added a bit of whiskey to his because he needed the liquid courage to talk to this man after what he’d said at the school. Jack sat so that he was facing Will’s father, but he was looking at Will. 

Will backed away from the window, not wanting to be seen. The men fell silent and Will sat back down on his bed. He was breathing heavily and his heart was beating too fast. Jack wanted to take him away. And Will knew he would eventually have to go. 

He could see his father on the porch: his weathered skin and tired eyes, his hair that had once been the same color as Will’s graying at the temples. He was a tall, sturdy man, if a little too soft and broad around the middle due to the whiskey. Blue eyes, not quite the same shade as Will’s but close. The same nose except for the permanent alcoholic flush across it. 

Proud. He always held himself tall and told Will to stand up straight. He never took charity. No matter how little they had, he worked for what they needed. But Will saw his sadness, too. His fear. He wanted to be a father to Will but he knew he wasn’t good at it. He wasn’t prepared to deal with Will’s strangeness or his unusual gifts. 

Will saw the way his father pursed his lips, considering Jack’s question. When he answered, his voice was surprisingly soft.

“No. It’s not going to go away.” 

Will cried then, hot tears that burned his cheeks, despite the fact that he knew his father would tell him to “man up.” His father hated tears. 

But Will couldn’t help it. His father was going to give him up. He would let Jack take him away. Will didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to be there anymore. He wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. 

They hadn’t been back to Montgomery since he was seven, but Will closed his eyes and pictured the lake they used to visit. He ran his hand over the stone wall, feeling the smoothness of the river rock that stayed cool even under the summer sun. He felt the warm breeze on his face and smelled the slightly stagnant scent of the lake water. They’d gone to fish a few times, as did many other people in the area. 

Will could almost see them: him, his father and his Aunt on their way to the lake. But when he looked more closely at the memory he only saw himself and his father. 

_Hadn’t his Aunt gone with them?_

But she wasn’t in the memory, it was only the two of them. “Daddy,” Will said, his blue eyes excited, “some day I’m going to be the best fisherman. I’ll catch us fish for dinner every night.” 

His father was smiling. Happy. They had been happy and then something had happened. “You keep practicing, Billy,” his father said, “and you can do anything you set your mind on.” 

“Billy?” there was a knock at his bedroom door. 

_Right, he was still in his bedroom._

“Billy?” the voice sounded more urgent and farther away. Will knew he should open his eyes and open the door, but he didn’t want to see Jack or his father. He didn’t want to be told he was being taken. 

“William! Open this door, son,” his father said. His voice was angry but distant, like he was yelling from a long way away. Something was wrong. 

Will opened his eyes. His bedroom was gone and it was night. He was at the lake, running his hand across the wall of river rocks, headed toward the wooden walkway that led out over the water. He was alone. 

He closed his eyes. It wasn’t real. He was only remembering, and when he opened his eyes he would be back in his bedroom in their little house in Biloxi. But when he opened his eyes nothing had changed. He was still at the park, it was was still dark, and he was still alone. Will walked to a small bench and sat, curling into himself and wrapping his arms around his legs. He didn’t know what to do. He felt very small and terribly lonely. 

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he whispered into his knees as tears stained his jeans. _Those tears aren’t worth the salt you’re spending, Billy,_ his father’s voice sounded in his head. But Will only cried harder. 

“You alright?” 

Will startled, not looking up. The voice was brittle but kind. He wasn’t alright, but he didn’t know how to explain what had happened. It wasn’t polite not to acknowledge the voice but he wasn’t sure how he should respond, so he stayed still. 

“You here by yourself?” the voice asked, coming closer. Will raised his head slightly, catching sight of a blue shirt and the wrinkled arms of someone who spent too much time in the sun. He traced the arms down to hands that were gripping tightly to a walker. “S’okay, honey,” the voice continued. “I don’t bite.”

Lifting his head to face the voice, Will saw a head of gray hair and dark eyes surrounded by laugh lines. The woman’s face broke into a wide, toothy smile. “Such pretty blue eyes,” she said, lowering herself with agonizing slowness so that she sat next to Will on the bench. “What are you doing out here all alone, blue eyes? You lost? Running away?” 

Still unsure what to say, Will watched her for a moment before responding. It was a bit of both, if he was being honest. “Lost,” he said. 

The woman nodded. “There someone you can call? There’s a payphone not too far from here. I’ve got a quarter for you if you need it.”

“I don’t know her phone number,” Will said softly, hating the feeling of tears rising behind his eyes once more. The woman placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Will flinched out of habit, but her hand was surprisingly soft for how wrinkled it was. He could feel her fingers curled against his back, her knuckles large and misshapen from arthritis. But she was warm, and she was kind. 

“I’m gonna take you to the police station, blue eyes,” she said gently. “I know you probably don’t wanna go, but they’ll be able to help you find your people.” She stood with that same agonizing slowness, gripping her walker and pulling herself up inch by inch with a low groan. Movement clearly hurt her, but she turned and smiled at Will once she was standing. 

“It’s a shame to get old, blue eyes,” she said, “but as long as these bones’ll still move, I make ‘em move.” Will smiled back at her in spite of himself, wiping his eyes self-consciously. 

“Name’s Grace,” she said. She didn’t extend her hand, instead holding tightly to the walker. 

“Will.” 

“That’s a good name for you, blue eyes,” she said. “Where there’s a Will, there’s a way, right?” Her laugh was more of a cackle, but pleasant nonetheless. They made their way slowly to the car, Grace breathing heavily and grunting softly with each step. Will wondered why she was out walking and how she was going to drive. She laughed again, the same brittle crackling sound, glancing to her side to eye him with amusement. “Don’t worry blue eyes,” she said. “I drive better than I walk." 

As it turned out Grace drove much better than she walked, because she didn’t have to use her legs. She had something attached to her steering wheel that let her do everything with her hands. 

The police station was not far from the lake. They were mostly quiet during the short drive, but it was a pleasant sort of quiet. Will didn’t feel concerned at all, no matter what his father had told him about accepting rides from strangers. When they arrived Grace insisted on going in with him. “I can’t leave you alone yet, blue eyes,” she said. 

Will helped her out of the car, pulling her walker from the backseat and positioning it so she could pull herself out with it. He wondered how she got out of the car by herself. She asked for the sergeant when they walked in and told him Will was lost and looking for his family. Will told them his Aunt lived in the area, reluctantly gave them his father’s number in Biloxi, and then settled down to wait, accepting a soda and a small bag of peanuts from one of the patrol officers. 

Grace patted him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go now, blue eyes,” she said. “But my boy here’s gonna take good care of you.” She pointed at the sergeant, who smiled at her in response. Will nodded nervously. He hadn’t expected to feel comfortable in a police station, but with Grace there it felt ok. He wasn’t sure how it would feel when she left. He bit at the knuckle of his thumb, holding his soda can tightly in the other hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. He wanted to do something for her. Reaching out he rested his fingertips lightly on her hand, thinking how nice it would be if she didn’t hurt so much. She gasped and flexed her hand, giving Will a strange look. 

“Blue eyes,” she said, stopping abruptly. She took a deep breath. “Will. Good luck to you honey.” She grabbed her walker and stood, barely emitting a groan when she did, and kissed him on the forehead before heading out the front door. 

When they couldn’t find his Aunt - Will wondered if maybe she’d moved - they called his father to come collect him. It was just over a three hour drive from Biloxi to Montgomery. Will would be waiting for a while. 

He dropped a few peanuts into his can of coke, wishing they had bottles instead. When he finished the first can he asked politely at the desk if he could have another, and a female officer with brown hair and green eyes got him one. Will thought she was pretty and smiled shyly when she handed him the can. She.talked to him for a few minutes before going back to work. The other officers mostly left him alone, checking in on him from time to time to make sure he was ok. If they thought it was odd that a ten year old from Biloxi had somehow ended up in Montgomery they didn’t say anything. 

A few of them watched when Will’s father and Jack showed up to collect him. They tried to pretend that they weren’t paying attention, but Will could tell they were. They watched as Will’s father, never a hugger, pulled him tightly to his chest and Jack proclaimed that Will was “amazing” and “incredible.”

Despite drinking two cans of coke, Will feel asleep in the car not long after they left. He didn’t want to, especially with Jack in the car, but he was too tired not to. 

He tried not to think of it as a ride home. He doubted he’d be there much longer. 

***

Awareness returned slowly. It was sounds first: feet shuffling across the floor, the rustling of papers, people speaking in hushed voices. He couldn’t quite make out the words, the sounds rising and falling in a pattern that was familiar but without meaning. In the distance he heard someone coughing. A consistent beeping sounded near his right ear: a heart monitor. He was in the hospital, he realized, before consciousness slipped away once more.   
  
When he rose to consciousness for the second time he became aware of more sensations: the scratch of the hospital gown on his skin, the pressure of the sheet covering him, the IV connected to his arm, the pulse oximeter clamped to his finger. He could still hear the heart monitor, beeping in a constant rhythm. He supposed that meant his heart was still working, at least. The chuckle that rose in his throat quickly became a cough. 

He turned his head and saw a figure approaching his bed. For one brief moment it was the creature, approaching his bed with a predatory grace. Its blue-black skin swallowed the harsh lights of the hospital room as its blood-red eyes bored into Will. It grinned, flashing its teeth. 

Will could hear the increase in his heart rate as the creature came closer, but as Will’s eyes flicked up to its antlers he saw only empty space. Lowering his gaze once more he realized there was no creature. What stood before him was a man. 

The man brushed a strand of sandy-blond hair out of his eyes with a flicker of irritation that suggested his hair was rarely out of place. He was regarding Will with a look of open curiosity, his lips pursed in a way that pressed his upper lip forward and made him appear almost petulant. 

“You’re awake,” the man said. His voice was pleasantly accented and Will felt unaccountably soothed hearing it. He’d only said two words. Will wondered if the man was using magic, but he didn’t feel anything. Maybe he wasn’t capable of sensing it anymore. Maybe he’d expended all his magic escaping the creature. 

He wasn’t certain how he felt about that possibility. 

Will nodded at the man, not trusting his voice. He could tell it would be hoarse from disuse without bothering to try speaking. He wondered how long he’d been there. The man picked up a glass of water from the side table and positioned the straw to Will’s mouth. 

“Slowly,” he said. Will did as he was told, taking small sips and pausing between each one, grateful for the feeling of the tepid liquid coating his mouth and throat. He drank nearly half the glass that way before pulling his head back from the straw and trying to smile, hoping his gratitude was clear. 

The man set the glass down and placed a hand on Will’s forehead. It was clinical but not unkind, although Will was unsure of the purpose. Surely something he was presently hooked up to was monitoring his temperature. There should be no need for this man to touch him to see if he was warm. 

But Will had to admit he liked the feel of the man’s hand on his forehead. It was soothing in a way that was similar to his voice; soft and cool like a dip in the clear waters of a river or a gentle breeze on a warm summer’s day. Will closed his eyes, swallowed roughly, and opened them again, focusing on the man. 

“Who,” he croaked, the rest of the sentence catching in his throat. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Graham,” the man said. “It was quite rude of me not to introduce myself. I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

**Author's Note:**

> So . . . this started with the image of Will falling into a mirror and morphed into 12k words, and Hannibal doesn't even show up until the end. 
> 
> I do fully intend to write more, so I put this up as Chapter 1 of who knows? but I am not going to make any promises regarding when I will get to/post more. Particularly since I have another WIP on here that I am definitely still updating and spent some time trying to replot yesterday (since I am way off my original plot line) and I have many, many other things I am working on or need to do in my personal/work life. 
> 
> I have no particular reason for attacking Cymbeline at the beginning of this fic, although I will admit it's not one of my favorite Shakespeare plays. But the quote Will thinks of comes from it so it just kind of happened.


End file.
